Mirror, Mirror
by ale-cat23
Summary: One-Shot, Whitney centric. "The smile is still on your face, the only expression people see. Because unlike with your mirror, it’s the only expression you’ll let them see."


**A/N: This one-shot was inspired by episode 10 "Ready, A.I.M, Fire." I decided I had to get this done before I started working on chapter 4 of Jealousy. I want to stress that Whitney is not a favorite character of mine, but this was just begging to be written. Enjoy.**

**Disclaimer: IMAA is not mine. In any way, shape, or form. This story is, though. **

You stand in front of your full length mirror, your whole being reflected in it. The mansion is all yours right now, like it always tends to be. Your dad is at the company he usurped, same as always.

You've stopped worrying too much about what your dad thinks of you. You realized, after many weeks of thought, that he doesn't love you. Oh, you know he must've at some point, probably when you were young. He had to, he's your dad, and you're his only child. But then your mother died, and instead of devoting his time to loving you, like most widowed fathers would, he left you in the care of nannies and devoted himself to his work, his money. Now, you're just another weapon in his arsenal, another tool he can use to get what he wants. It doesn't much matter to you- you've got your own weapons to get what _you _want.

You look at yourself; truly look at yourself in the mirror. The flawless skin, the perfect hair, the gorgeous body with curves where they should be, the clothes that flatter them perfectly. You're a beauty; no one needs to tell you that. No one did, actually. You figured it out from the looks you got- lustful and appreciative from the boys, envious from the girls. You like the looks, they make you feel good about yourself and make you stand up just a bit straighter.

You figured out how to use your looks to get what you want. That and the power that now comes with the surname Stane. That combination places you within the stereotype of "rich bitch" but you're fine with that. You found that, after being branded with this stereotype, the lifestyle fits you comfortably. You're a party girl, you like the finer things in life, like lounging on a yacht or shopping for designer clothes or getting weekly makeovers. You like associating with people of your rank, just as much as you hate the riffraff who cling to you. Most importantly, you like having people to influence and having control over everything.

But this stereotype has helped as much as hindered you. You're now trapped in a world you got yourself into, one where you have to maintain a certain image. People can't see you as anything more than you made yourself to be. You can't lose face, can't show any weaknesses. People must think that everything is perfect for you, that the biggest decision you have to make is whether or not to spend the summer on the French Riviera, must think that your biggest fiasco is someone getting a new top before you. Even when your world is slowly decaying, you can't let on.

But you don't want to. You're _Whitney Stane. _You're strong, successful, _perfect._

No one in your social circle knows any of your deepest secrets. They've barely skimmed the surface of you, and they have no interest in going deeper. And besides, you have no humans you know enough or _trust_ enough to give that information to. You may have had Tony once, before your father's paranoia and that red-haired girl stole him away.

But you have the mirror. Everyone else sees you as Whitney Stane, hot rich girl, but only your mirror sees you as Whitney, the girl who might as well be an orphan, the scared, confused and lonely teenage girl. It doesn't judge or make comments about what you give it. It reflects you truly, and will keep the secrets of your flawed world hidden within it.

You move closer to the mirror, running your fingers gently down its smooth, clear surface. You bring the hand back up to chest level and rest it against the cold glass, bringing your face inches from the mirror. Looking closely, you can see small black bags under your eyes, signs of fatigue and stress. Layers of make-up normally cover them, but up close they can't be hidden.

You then focus on your eyes. It's a weird sensation, staring into your own eyes, watching your pupils dilate and contract. But within your green orbs, you can see sadness reflected back at you. Sadness and pain. You don't know how you manage to hide it so well. Eyes are supposed to be windows to the soul, but you guess that no one looks into your eyes that much. No, they focus on your outward appearance, the one you gave yourself.

You ball your hand into a fist. You're tired of all this. You hate the mask you wear, the limited control you actually have in your world. You hate having no best friend, no one to share your secrets with, and you hate how it's mainly your fault. You hate how, even though it causes you so much pain, you don't want anyone to know anything but the external you, the perfect you. But you're tired of seeing yourself in the mirror, tired and worn and stressed. You're tired of being so conflicted. You're just _tired. _

A sudden anger rises within you, and you let out an anguished scream and hit the mirror with as much force as possible. It shatters as your fist slams into it, sparkling pieces raining down onto the carpet. You make no move pick any of them up; your room is always left untouched, they'll stay there, no one will know.

Instead, you stand and face the empty wall. The only thing to have seen your insecurity, your pain and sadness, is gone, a hundred fragments on the floor. Your secrets are safe. Each shard reflects a different angle of you, none of them getting your full figure, a clear picture of you. Kind of like everyone in your life.

You stoop down and pick up one of the pieces, about the size of your palm. You hold it up to your face, and it's just large enough to encompass your mouth. You give the piece your best smile, bright and flirty, full of a warmth and happiness you don't feel.

Satisfied with the smile you see, you let the piece fall. It lands with a small _chink _amid the other pieces. You walk away, leaving behind the secret fragments of yourself.

The smile is still on your face, the only expression people see. Because unlike with your mirror, it's the only expression you'll let them see.

**A/N: That was me attempting angst. I do want to redo it someday, but I don't think it's too bad overall. But my opinion is only half. What you do think? Leave a review!**


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